• Wayne Perkins

The Banshee

The clouds they were a-racing, across the sky they were a-chasing, a shadow of the night embracing, that was dark and dread and more.

And the sun had been a-calling, but the dusk was gently calling, and the mind of man was falling, ever lower than before.

The dreams of sacred morrows, that were begged or bought or borrowed, had shown nothing more than sorrow, and lay bleeding on the ground.

Outside the shuffling footsteps stopped, fingers checked the door was locked, but though they waited, no one knocked, amidst the sullen silent sound.

And the shadow waited vainly, with its silhouette ungainly, and a patience that was plainly, not of human DNA.

It had no use of sorry, or the needless scent of worry, it had always sought its quarry, with no thought of just decay.

From a timeless ancient portal, clothed in black like the immortal, whose screams make the demons chortle, from their pit beneath the throne.  

With a soft and gentle stillness, it lay waiting on the illness, which would usher in the chillness, that robbed life from flesh and bone.

Inside the room, impending sadness, and the cruel expanding badness, tried to rob the past of gladness, and the memory of light.

And the parasitic evil, hidden face of man and devil, intoned that hope was medieval and be banished from the night.

So, they peaked behind the curtain, to see the shadow, standing, lurking, from a time and place uncertain, born of magic's ancient lore.

And the waiting, silent, Banshee, that they oft had chose to not see, put its fingers to the latchkey and then tapped upon the door.

While the shadow stood there tapping, that inhuman ghostly rapping, that had often caught men napping, unprepared for such as she.

I cast my mind to far off spaces, previous times and other places, where youth’s beauty was the ace’s, held by all, but then by me.

Where the sunrise fed the morning, where the seeds of life were forming, and the breath of day was dawning, on the heaven's joyful dance.

And the innocence of wonder, had not heard the roll of thunder, or the green-eyed thirst for plunder, just a sacred peaceful trance.

The baby lay there sleeping, with the mother softly keeping, dreams and hopes for future greeting, that time soon would bring to pass.

For the moving of the hours, the sparrow fallen, and the flowers, that eternity devours, with no thought to circumstance.

The stream of time moves slow, it never stops its constant flow, while all the things we think we know, are consigned to yesterday.

With the growing realisation, life has no simple explanation, and the only game we play in, is hostage to the changing way.

And that baby softly sleeping, becomes a boy who time is keeping, and as the years just keep on creeping, the transformation is complete.

For the poet and the king, like those who beg and those who sing, like the wise and simpleton, find out life you cannot cheat.

In the twinkling of an instant, youth and beauty become distant, with conceit now non-existent, as the end you must explore.

Like the falling of a leaf, the life lived now seems so brief, know the truth, time is a thief, to whom you left an open door.

Back in the room of earthly shadows, with approaching deathly hallows, the thief of time is set to foreclose and pay the piper once for all.

Inhuman fingers cease their knocking, the air grows cold with subtle mocking, some doors their ain’t no use in locking, it’s the final curtain call.

From the Alpha to Omega, whether rich or whether beggar, no matter what the grand endeavour, the reaper comes for such as we.

And I guess the final question, that you can answer with discretion, does life require a confession, at the wailing of the banshee?

Wayne Perkins

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